Tales From Fiction Writing Class

Tales from fiction writing class

Create a scene using details and imagery to convey a feeling without stating it directly, use like dialog.

"I'm just trying to help you. You ‘re going to go to Hell."

My throat dried out. It felt like those mornings after I had smoked a couple of Menthols 100s the night before while drunk at some bar. My nose was starting to burn as well, like when you're underwater and you breathe in. Caleb seemed to notice my discomfort after a moment.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. Just ... I'm sorry."

The lights in the restaurant seemed too bright all of a sudden. The other customers all seemed to be too happy to be real people. Even the glass of water next to me looks too pretty to drink. It's probably from the tap, filled with iron and rust particles. Drinking anything in this place sounded awful. 

Silence set in then. My eyes wandered over to the tables that surrounded us. There was a man in a suit with a bolo tie that didn’t like his salad but still eating it. A ceiling fixture on the opposite wall had an overlooked cobweb on it. A woman sitting a bit away wore a pretty summer dress with a pair of black and white Adidas sneakers, looking cute and quirky.

I heard Caleb start to talk again, but I continued to stare at her shoes." I think once you start going to worship with my family you'll really like it. The people there are so welcoming and nice. You know it kinda hurts my feelings that you won't even try to come just once." I wish I was cute and quirky.

The woman noticed me staring at her then and gave me a rude look. I slowly turned my body forward in the chair as my stomach contoured into a painful ball. Caleb was looking away now, but he felt my eyes on him. He took a deep breath and put on a forced smile before looking at me again.

“I got you something." He pulled a red jewelry box out of his pants pocket and slide it over to my side of the table. "Happy six months." The piano music was now very melancholy yet it hadn't changed keys. His hands started shaking a bit. He wanted me to explode into a smile and kiss him passionately, then he’d feel better.

"Uh… here." He reaches over and opens the box. It was a small heart pendant encrusted with three white diamonds. The one that’s super popular with many women right now. The one that his sister had flaunted at me two months ago over dinner and I had pretended to love out of politeness.

I should rub my eyes, but then I'll smear my makeup and it'll get in my contacts and it'll look like I'm crying and I'm not crying.

"Please say something."

“I don't feel well,” a hoarse voice says.

He has a look on his face. One I can't name, but I know it well. The one some old classmates I don't talk to anymore had. The one a street preacher had when he yelled at me for wearing a skirt. It seems a lot of people have this look. An old roommate had it. The cashier at Walmart. My mom. 

“You’ll feel better after you eat.”

A poem I wrote by picking the middle word my phone suggested

Idk why Dumbledore is a man who has been in a relationship for the weekend and I had a lot to talk to you

And you were all the best and the other guy who was the one who had to go out there for 20yrs to get dinner together for the first year

And I wanna be there for you and you can help us with that right here in a minute

Please

Thank yoooo and thank yoooo and hope for a great day to see endgame and the secular nature that is not a great idea

but it doesn't matter how long is there for you and your child and you are a great man threw away a few things you don't want but I have a final question for the next few hours before the game was done

To the play of a connection with a consontr or something that would have made it better to have a final round and the next one was a bit more of the game

I think its ok for me and I had a lot to do something about the team that I was in the game with a team of players who is going through poetry with a concentration camp that has a great reputation

And I had to do something about the world.

Oh J

Even when I try to leave

You pull me back. 

Perhaps if I was a better poet, you’d like me for. 

Tales from Friction Writing Class

write a character that is unreliable

For as long as I can remember, I have loved Halloween. I don't remember why, but I do. Maybe because it was one of the only nights of the year when my parents wouldn’t fight. Maybe because I was able to dress in as much black fabric and red paint as I wanted without our neighbors pointing out that "Girls shouldn't dress so gloomy." Maybe it was because my favorite photo of my brother was him falling asleep in a stroller with a Kitkat in his mouth. For whatever reason, I always looked forward to October 31st. But after sitting in a holding cell at 2am, covered in fake blood, I have started to rethink all the hype. 

The officer walked in. "Moralez, let's go." I got up and saw that I had left a red stain on the wooden bench where I had just sat. I hoped the officer wouldn't see and add it to the charges. 

He escorted me into a small dark room with a single light hanging from the ceiling. It looked just like the ones in every cop show.

"Alright, let's get started." He sat me down in a cold metal chair. Once he sat, I was able to get a good look at his face for the first time.

"Hey, I know you. Aren't you the hero cop of Maylan County?" He looked taken aback but pleased. "Well, thank you, but that was two years." 

"I know, but still. I followed that story for two whole months. No one could stop talking about it. You got shot in the arm taking down a Meth Lab and saved two kids as well. That is amazing."

The officer started to chuckle. "You really know a lot about that case." He looked down at the papers in front of him, still smiling. "It's kind of my thing. I'm a Journalism Major."

"That's a great field to go into. A lot of opportunities for jobs."

"Thank you, sir."

He looked down again and seemed to remember where we were."So," he started. "What were you doing in the graveyard? "

I tried to make myself look small and innocent. "Pulling a prank, it's Halloween."

"A prank on who?" He backed off a bit.

"Melody Ginmen. She's the one who called you, right?"

"I'm not allowed to reveal that information." He wrote something down. "The witness said that they saw someone devil worshiping. They reported strange lights, smoke, and a dark figure bathing in blood."

"Yeah, Melody started a rumor that I'm a Satanist, so I decided to give her what she wanted."

He was quiet for a moment. "And are you?"

I laughed. "Of course not. That's ridiculous. I made sure that Melody overheard me saying I would go to the graveyard. Then I bought a bunch of stuff on Amazon and made sure that she followed me out there."

He kept writing. "Why would she start this rumor?"

"Cus she hates me. Ever since I stopped going to church with my family five years ago, she and her friends have had it out for me."

"Interesting."

"You've probably heard of her family. They're crazy religious zealots. They don't go to the doctor. They don't watch PG-13 movies. They bully people in town and protest Halloween events."

He finished writing after a minute. "I've heard enough. I'll be right back." He walked out into the hall and started talking to some other officers. After a moment, I heard a voice exclaim “I KNOW WHAT I SAW.”

Within twenty minutes, I was in the back of a squad car, being driven back to my dorm hall. The new officer asked, “So what are you studying?” 

I smiled, “Religious studies.”

A Garbage Story That I Had To Write In Under 100 Words And 10 Minutes Or Ghost Boy

There once was a boy who saw ghosts. So, one day, his mom toke him to see a psychic. 

As the psychic read his palms, she began to scream. “ He has the gift. The gift.” The boy became scared and they left.

Eventually, the boy grew into a man and became a regular guest star on Dr.Oz and The Maury Show that gave readings to the audience. He got married at 45, then divorced at 63, then remarried at 65. This marriage stuck until he died at 89. But no one could see his ghost.  

“ You are so brave and quiet I forgot you were suffering.”

- Ernest Hemingway, A Farewell to Arms